


Light of My Life

by Ohiknowlotsofthings10



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alternate Universe - No Sburb Session, Character Death, Domestic Fluff, Fluff, M/M, Sadstuck, Sorry Not Sorry, davejohn - Freeform, johndave - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-12
Updated: 2016-06-12
Packaged: 2018-07-14 16:18:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,152
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7179791
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ohiknowlotsofthings10/pseuds/Ohiknowlotsofthings10
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sburb begins with the end of the world. But what if you aren't part of that session? Your name is Dave Strider and you are tremendously fucked. </p><p>Short one-shot sadstuck au. Sorry.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Light of My Life

**Author's Note:**

> Sorry about this, it's been floating around in my head for a while and I had to get this out somehow. I really appreciate criticism and comments if you have any. Enjoy!

>Be Dave Strider  
You suppose “pluviophile” would act as an adequate descriptor for yourself. It always sickened you when people would count the familiar downpour that was native to Washington as “bad weather”. The tapping of over-sized drops acted like the feet of dancing mice performing another spectacular show to the darkness and dust residing in the attic of your childhood house.

You never did like that attic; you never did like that house either. The dank odor of moistness and rot would sulk to your bedroom in the night and fill your nose to the brim so that you were unable to sleep. The rain was your guide then, when you were younger. It would scrape away the outlines of trees surrounding your house making the scene resemble and antique photograph, where you could tell what and where certain things are and were, but their pigments would blur together like water colors on a canvas.  
Now the rain is an old friend that visits every so often to recite the stories they created of when they were away, but somehow always end up recalling the first time you met and reminiscing on that for the remainder of their stay. You are always silent when the rain visits; it would be very rude to interrupt their memories with your superfluous chatter. So you remain, without a noise, and listen.

You are listening now to the ‘tip-tap’ of mouse feet coming from the coffee maker, who acts very much like the rain, but without their ability to demand stillness. Today is Wednesday, April 17th, 2020. Your name is Dave Strider and you are 25 years old as of December 3rd last year. There isn’t much about yourself that would demand attention or admiration. Many hours of your time go into a local music shop that goes by the name of” Mo’s”. Not “Mo’s Music Co.” or even “Mo’s Acoustics and Musical Equipment”; it was simply “Mo’s” and the residents of Maple Valley, Washington knew exactly what that name entitled.  
When you weren’t working you dabbled in photography and littered your minuscule apartment with an assortment of small papers clipped to strung up twine across your living room. “Financially deprived hipster” seemed to be your aesthetic. You also created a small business for yourself that helps small and large companies with technical programs. It pays the bills and you enjoy it, to an extent.

Your pictures mostly captured random objects and furniture that peaked your interest at the right time, but every once in a while inspiration would attack and harass you to capture quick shots of people before the moment disappeared or they noticed they were being watched. You always remained inconspicuous though and would discretely maneuver to the proper angle, snap the picture, and move on like a breeze from unassuming targets. You would get the timing right every single time.  
The pungent, yet, alluring scent of espresso curls and writhes like a serpent throughout the kitchen while spreading across the remainder of the apartment. Your friend, the rain, is visiting once again today, and echoes the constant trickle of coffee filling your #1 gRADma mug that you received as a gift for your birthday when you were 16. Some of the cheap paint has faded leaving the edges of some letters more rounded than others and there’s a crack where the handle broke off and you super-glued it back together. This cup has stared Death in the face and Death blinked first. Plus, it shows that you are the world’s #1 gRADma and you have to represent somehow.  
The sky outside looks like smeared oil paints cascading toward the ground in long, bristled strokes. You almost never wear your sun glasses in the apartment when the rain comes. It’s just dark enough to not have natural light do any damage to your sensitive vision and just bright enough that you can appreciate how colors look without a shade over them

You just start adding creamer to your coffee when the familiar creak of your bedroom door cracks the quiet the rain ordered for.

“’Morning Dave! Can you make me a cup of coffee, too? I’m heading to the post office and I want to get there as soon as possible. Thanks!”

There he is. You’ve been living with John Egbert for years now since you both went to the same musical arts college. You’ve known each other for most of your lives over the internet, but only hung out in real life when you moved near his neighborhood from Texas when you were 13 due to your brother getting a job here to support you and himself. John is studying for a major in music and entertainment while you got a bachelors in technical programming then stopped. You never liked school very much and it wasn’t worth it while you were happy being self-employed creating programs for companies. John dreams of performing piano as a professional and practices more often than not which is annoying as fuck when you want to spend time with him. You still love to hear him play, though, and watch his fingers as they do advanced choreography along the white and black tiles of the piano you keep in a spare bedroom.

That’s why he’s getting up early to head to the post office; his letter from Julliard should be coming any day now. John sent out an application and nearly pissed himself from excitement when he did. He waited a few years after high school to do it in order to save enough money and get more musical experience, but now he’s ready and willing to pack up and move away from his home town.

You will be going with him, of course, when he gets accepted. You work your programming from home and the job at the music store isn’t worth it to be separated from John. He’s been waiting most of his life to get this letter and you would bet on your life savings that he’ll get in without any delays. You’d bet on your camera and it’s a fucking nice camera so you’re sure this kid’s getting his piano-playing ass to Julliard.

“Sure, babe,” you yell over your shoulder as you open the cabinet for another mug. You love calling him “babe” because it always makes him grin like he won a fucking goldfish at a state fair and because it rolls off your tongue like syrup when you say it to him. You and John officially started to date back in high school after years of unrequited feelings on his part and being a self-pitying coward on yours. You finally got the balls to kiss him senior year during one of your weekly movie nights when he started to talk about college. The thought of him leaving you behind to prance off to some out of state college scared the ever living shit out of you and you couldn’t stand that.  
You rammed your face against his while he was rambling on about all the sheet music he had to memorize by the end of the week and your teeth hurt from impact. It was a giant clusterfuck of what the hell was I thinking? Why the hell isn’t he pulling away? Why the fuck is he kissing back?

After a small makeout session and a long chat about feelings on both of your parts you decided mutually that you would stick together as long as you could. And you did. You applied for the same state-run college and moved in together once you could. Every moment spent with John is a new emotion that feeds into your photography and even your overall work performance. He makes you strive to be better: a caring person, harder worker, more loving boyfriend. All for him.

The last drip of dark liquid plops from the coffee maker into John’s mug when you feel a warm breath ghost the back of your neck. “Thanks for the coffee, babe,” John mocks in an exaggerated voice trying to replicate your own. That sneaky bastard and his socked feet giving him stealth abilities. His arms enclose to wrap around your chest from behind. Since John is about a head shorter than you his cheek nuzzles up against the top of your shoulder and you shiver from the feeling of him.  
You feel his chest move against your back as he raises himself up on his toes and pecks the nape of your neck light and lovingly. Your eyes close automatically and a hum starts steady in the lower part of your throat extracting every bit of feeling his lips give as you can.

“You’re still in your pajamas, aren’t you,” you question uselessly, already sure of the answer.

John’s lips form a smile against your skin as he pecks a few more soft brushes near your hair. “Yeah, but so are you,” he chides playfully. A few scoops of sugar are placed into his drink and you open your eyes to watch the grains dissolve instantly in the heat. John’s fingers rub at the fabric of your shirt and you grin at the way he smooths out the material with his thumb.

“Wow, John. Still in Ghost Busters pjs at 11am as a working adult.” You click your tongue for added effect. “How are you ever going to get into a good college when you can’t even leave your Con Air fluffy socks, which I know you’re wearing right now.”

You feel his body move as he shuffles his feet in embarrassment and you find it excruciatingly adorable. “Screw you.” He opens his mouth and licks a slobbery strip across your neck and you kick his shin as he tries to escape. “Holy shit, Egbert, you’re like a fucking dog!” You look over your shoulder to see him run back to the bedroom you share and snicker as he almost slips on the kitchen tile in his awful Nick Cage socks you got him last Christmas.

You wipe at the spit on your skin and smear it along your Coca-Cola brand t-shirt. “You’re a dork, Egbert!” You yell in the direction of where he scattered off to and go back to preparing his coffee: a small cream-colored heart made with foam because it’s ironic and completely not because John likes it when you do little boyfriend things like that.

“Yeah, but I’m your dork!” You bite your bottom lip to keep from full out grinning and set his mug gently on the bar counter top for him to get it when he comes back. He is your dork, no one else’s, jut yours, all for you, and that’s how you like it. “Alright then, Egderp, come get the coffee I made you before I drink it all and you’ll have to settle for the gross taste that’ll be left in my mouth!” You get nothing but an earful of silence and sigh in amusement. You know he’s blushing by now and you peer out of your apartment window, waiting for his response.

You notice the clouds have changed. They gray on your oil canvas has added a redder pigment to the mix and blends darker near the north. Other apartments and buildings surrounding you block your vision from examining much of the sky, but you like the red that was added to the section that you can see. Fucking sky changing colors and doing weird shit. Time to question the skimpy weather woman that surprisingly gives decent reports, although her voice makes you want to shove knives in your ears.  
It’s not that you’re interested in weather, you just don’t want John to walk to the post office in really bad rain if you could just drive the couple of blocks and not risk him getting sick. Sick John is probably the saddest thing that currently exists in human history and you do not want to relive the salmonella attack of 2019. That was one of the worst weeks of John’s life and yours, even though he was either asleep or drugged up on Pepto Bismol most of the time. Stomach bugs are no fun, let’s just leave it at that.  
You switch on the small T.V. John’s dad gave him as a graduation and first apartment present and click through channels to the local weather news. There she is, your scandalous, yet efficient, weather woman. You realize that the skin tight dresses and low cut blouses are mainly a way for the producers to heighten the amount of male viewers, but you got the love of your life pounding your ass every other night so you don’t really pay attention to this girl’s cleavage. It’s nice cleavage you’ll admit, but then again all cleavage is nice.

You turn the volume up louder as you make your way back to the kitchen from the living room. Like you said, your apartment is very small. You walk in the front door and see the kitchen to the left, the living room to the right, and the living room leads to two bedrooms: one for you and John and a music and photo-development room. It’s where John is so you guess it’s your home, at least, until you move to New York when John gets accepted to Julliard.  
Your bare feet tap along the tiles to the rhythm of the rain as you stride (pun intended) back to the kitchen. Froot Loops sound pretty good for you, and John always likes toast with butter and cinnamon. Who the fuck puts cinnamon on toast though? You asked him once when you were in college and he said that it reminded him of when his dad would make holiday treats with a shit ton of cinnamon and he always liked the smell. Fucking sentimental nerd. You grin a bit at the thought and pop a piece of bread into the toaster on a 2 setting. You always liked your toast a little bit burnt, like how your bro used to make it, but John prefers it with as little crispness as the bread can get with it still being referred to as ‘toast’.

The weather woman’s high-pitched, nasally voice jumbles around the room and bounces off the walls in a chorus of noise that honestly makes you want to stick the butter knife you’re using in an electrical socket. It’ll only last a minuet, though, and this is the most reliable weather report station for the area so you’ll just have to suck it up.  
You grab John’s toast from the toaster and start to butter it while it’s still hot and steaming. The cinnamon is on the top shelf and as you reach up to grab it you tune in to the report for the day. A whiny squeak explains that today is a replica of the past few weeks with scattered showers and cool temperatures, but no major storms coming in. You’re glad that John won’t be going out in a tsunami of down pour, but you do enjoy the rain’s storytelling when it gets passionate about one of its adventures.  
After the weather is given out, a report starts about the developments of Betty Crocker’s new spring baking recipes that will be released soon. John absolutely hates Betty Crocker with a fiery passion so you have no use for the recipes, even if you could bake. John’s toast is now completely cinnamon-ifyed and you place the container back to its original spot among its spice family. There you go little dude, have fun.

You lay John’s toast on a plate next to his waiting coffee and start to the fridge to prepare your cereal. Awww yeah, getting dem Frooty Loops. Taste the rainbow, bitch. You grab the cereal box and set it on the counter, then step to the fridge for the milk. None of that skim shit. You only get whole, because you can drink whole if you wanted to. Skim is just white-colored water lying about being milk. And you don’t want any liars soaking in your Froot Loops. Fruits like yourself only deserve the best.  
You nearly drop the milk on your toes when a loud screeching sound echoes from the T.V. It’s not loud enough to make you cover your ears, but it did scare the shit out of you when you were attempting to make a magically delicious breakfast. Wait, shit, that’s Luck Charms. Goddamnit. You set the milk down carefully next to the cereal box and lean over the kitchen counter to peer at the T.V. in annoyance. Your interest is peaked when you see white letters and exclamation points swarming along a bright red bar near the bottom of the screen. What the fuck? This isn’t your low-cal rum cake recipe for two.

You remain leaning against the counter as you listen in, hoping this isn’t about a huge rain storm blowing in. It isn’t. It’s not the rain. Your mouth falls open as blinding white letters are displayed across the screen explaining what’s happening, but you don’t pay attention enough to focus on them. You heard enough from the deep male announcer voice describe the locations of where the meteors would hit and give the world it’s death sentence. You gaze out the window and suddenly the red sky makes a lot more sense.  
Your breaths come out in rapid gasps as you absorb the information, letting the facts of your new weather report seep into your mind and collect there, stewing.

“Hey, Dave! Is it going to keep raining? If it is then should I take my National Treasure umbrella or your Power Rangers one? Both of them will make me look like an idiot, but it’s only two blocks.”

John.

Shit. You take control of your breathing and clutch the edge of the counter, staring down at your white knuckles. Shitshitshitshit. You hear the door of your bedroom open and know John came out to see why you didn’t reply. You don’t reply when he again asks what umbrella he should take to the post office he’ll never get to. You don’t reply when he questions the damning words that are scattered across the television. You don’t reply to his silence. You do reply to him gasping out your name.  
You raise your head to look at him and your eyes rest upon the image of a very innocent, and very frightened man loosely holding a Power Rangers umbrella. You would laugh at the irony if you didn’t feel tears well up behind your eyes. John suddenly steps forward and presses the T.V.’s power button, effectively removing the permanent execution to your finite lives from the screen. He turns his head hesitantly to gape at you, his water-filled eyes hunger for answers that you don’t have.  
He drops the umbrella to the carpet with a soft thud and shakily steps toward you like a baby animal that’s first learning to walk. It’s endearing yet excruciating to watch.

“Dave?” he asks again for reassurance or possibly for you to tell him that this is one giant fucked up prank. It isn’t. The world you live in is, though. And this is how the universe wants to end the joke. John’s expression weaves your heartstrings together and you memorize it. Everything. Everything you can. Your eyes sweep over his form and collect the minuscule details that you want embedded you your mind for as long as you can. His hair sticks out in multiple directions from rubbing his head along your chest when you both slept last night. John’s hands are loose at his sides and his shoulders sag from and invisible weight. It’s a heavy blanket of fear that wraps around him and you recognize it immediately.

You map out the way his mouth looks slightly open and how his lips are dry. They’re always dry when you peck on them. Next is his nose, still pink from the cool weather and annual allergies that cause him to be a sniffling mess, your mess.

Then his eyes, oh god his eyes. Filled with dread that overflows onto his cheeks, polishing them. They’re like water that’s moving too fast for you to keep up with; always changing and morphing from cold to warm in a matter of seconds. They are cold, now, and rushing along like a stream filled with freshly melted snow; it’s beautiful to watch, but if you dive in you’ll get caught in the rapids and be hurt. It doesn’t matter, though. You’d drown a thousand times for John. You unhinge your fingers from the counter and hold your arms out above your waist in a gesture that needs comfort.

“Come here, babe,” your breath hitches, “please.”

Still in the midst of shock, John stumbles over and wraps his lanky arms around your waist hazily. You fold him into yourself and smother his form. It’s harder to breathe nuzzled against his hair, but you couldn’t care less; he’s warm and comforting and home. Air is a second priority right now. You feel his sobbing before you hear it. Water seeps through your t-shirt and his shoulders bob up and down in spasms, sending vibrations into your arms and through to your chest. He’s still in his pajamas.  
His breaths escape in wheezes between shudders and you only hold him tighter. You press light pecks to the top of his head to remind him that you’re there and leave feathery trails of touches to his shoulders. That only makes John grip the back of your shirt with more panic. Like if he isn’t holding you tight enough then he’ll melt through the tiles and create a different end for himself than the pre-assigned one that’s traveling 25,000 miles per hour to you now. The announcement stated that the Pacific was the first to be hit and the western U.S. was supposedly next. You didn’t care after that. You also don’t care about why this is so sudden or why scientists didn’t detect this earlier or even why where you live is one of the first locations to be hit. You just care that you can’t go back in time to give John a better live than what he’s had so far. You would have taken him on more dates and gotten him more flower bouquets and kissed him sooner than senior year. You could have loved him longer.  
You glance out the window and see the sky has added more red to the canvas. A beautifully depressing crimson that marks the clouds and slithers into the apartment on soft light waves. The color reminds you of your eyes and you press your face further into John’s dark hair, squeezing your eye lids shut and damming up your tears ready to spill. John’s sobs have quieted a bit, but he still sputters when he lifts his face a few inches away from your chest.

“I don’t want this to happen…”

His voice is small and strained; it echoes along the small kitchen. “I know”, you breathe into his curls and choke back a sob. Don’t start. Once you start you won’t be able to stop and John needs you right now. John sniffles and sucks in a deep breath of air, “I wanted- “, another sniff,”-to do things before I…you know… died.” His voice is louder now and more controlled although the water rushing down his face causes him to muffle his face into your shirt to dry himself. You treat John like the rain, you stay silent and listen without interruption.

“I might have gone to Julliard and played there… I could have gone to New York with you.”

His crying picks up again full swing, but that doesn’t stop him from continuing. “I wanted to travel and preform and get a better job so that I could help more with the bills…” You hug him closer, but not enough to stifle his words with your chest. The vibrations from his voice rocket along your rib cage into your bones and you feel him. You feel all that you can. His tears, his sobs, his fluffy hair, his thighs pressed against yours, his arms, his hands…his terror…hysteria…his…

John’s voice has raised now; enough to overshadow the frightened yells you recognize as your neighbors from down the hall. They know now and they join in your wait. John’s fingers clutch to your back harder than before and he presses his forehead to your chest in an attempt to steady himself, even though you would never let him fall.

“I wanted to live somewhere nicer…with you…I-I wanted to give you a better life and take care of you and protect you and I can’t. Do. That!” He’s screaming now and his hyperventilation has started again, thick and poisoning and angry. John is as close as he can get, yet you want him closer. You need to wrap him up tight within you and keep him secure when shit hits the fan. Your shirt is damp and John is grasping at air his lungs need but can’t have. It scares you that the only thing you can do it wait it out.

“I wanted to marry you!”

You pop your eyes open and cease rubbing swirls along his shoulders. John’s weeping has overtaken him now and he’s stopped talking. He said what he had to. You haven’t. You have wanted to marry John Egbert since you were 16 years old and fantasized about living with him permanently in an established relationship. If there is one thing you could go back in time to do it would be that you would engage the fuck out of John and make his Egbert ass your husband for as long as you both shall live. Seems like you didn’t have enough time.

“Me too.”

He's quieter now, as he clings to you for solace and as you give it willingly. Words aren’t your forte. Of course you ramble often and tell John you love him every second of every day, but now, when your words are numbered you have to choose carefully. Silence has always been your consolation and even when you have mere moments left to explain to John what he means to you, you are simply unable to form any sentence that will come close to what you want him to know. You can’t tell him something hollow.

You hum a light tune off the top of your head into his dark curls and sneak another glance out the window antagonizing you. Red. That’s all you can see; just red. Rain is still racing against the glass of the window and it washes over you with familiarity and comfort. It manipulates the clouds to be dusty and merged together in a coverage over the town like a fleece blanket. It’s warm and lethargic like sleep. A perennial dream. You wish for the sun in that moment. Rain has always greeted you congenially and with ease, but you treat the sunlight similar to that of a lover. They are pleasant and dry away the mist that the rain creates to envelop you. They’re different and abstract in so many ways that you can’t even begin to fathom how many tangents of color they are able to perform, like the feet of the dancing mice.

But, when the rain and the sunlight meet for an afternoon date they conjure up a universal phenomenon, a sunshower. Drops of water in the air mixing with mazes of light fractures constructs a fluid, transfiguring painting of luster and beauty. And finiteness. When dust settles and the rain attends to another rendezvous, leaving the sun to its own business, you’re left with a feeling of nostalgia. It’s sweet, like honey stirring through your chest. You wish for the sun to return once again, to caress the raindrops along the window pane, and to drive away the rusty pigment from the clouds.

John’s crying has become more muffled now that his face is buried within your shirt and you breathe in his scent once again. He smells fresh, like a summer morning before the heat makes outside unbearable. He smells like the sun. You rock back on the heels of your feet and lift your right foot outward, moving John with you slowly, then bounce your body in the other direction, back and forth between each foot.  
The subtle taps of both your and John’s steps echo in your ears as you guide him in the repetitive motions. You remember the mice again. Their cartography rings in your mind as you perform a final number from the dances you’ve memorized over time. A memorial to the vermin entertainers that you and John will present together in your fluffy, socked feet. You sway him to the new song forming in your mind and begin to hum it in replacement of the tune you created earlier. You feel his shoulders shake again and start rubbing your hands along them like before. Your sun shouldn’t thunder like a storm.

“You are my sunshine…”

The words are coarse in your throat, but you manage to croak them out to the best of your ability without choking up. You aren’t hollow and you won’t be quiet for the rain on their last visit to you, or anyone else for that matter. You are going to tell the story of the sun to the rain and they will listen mutely.

“…my only sunshine…” You sway to the left once more then back again to right. John moves with you and you cling to him while you can.

“…you make me happy-” Your voice gives away finally and buckles under the weight of grief. Grief for your sun and grief for the warm air that you won’t ever feel again. You squeeze your eyes tighter than before, trying unsuccessfully to stop the flow of tears escaping your lashes.

“When skies are gray…” John’s tone is strained and soft as he sings into your chest. His hiccuping disturbs the shudders from his crying even further and you share in his trembling. John inhales a choppy breath.  
You study the sky outside one last time. Your painting is nearly finished, dripping with crimson that will dry over time. There’s flecked brown dotting the canvas that you presume are the final touches the artist has added. A large dollop of the rusty brown slides down the picture and disappears behind the apartment building close to your own. Almost done.

“…you’ll never know dear, how much I love you…“ You feel his voice vibrate throughout your chest and savor the feeling. You’ll remember this, when this ends. You lean your head back and plant your lips firmly to John’s forehead. He’s warm.

“Please don’t take my sunshine away.”

**Author's Note:**

> Comment if you have any constructive criticism. Thanks for reading.


End file.
